Floating, weightless, in salty currents, my mind reclines into nothingness. Fluttering cerebellum pulsing its way to equilibrium, I fix my breath on the darkness expanding for miles behind my eyelids. Stars of nictitating membrane gather and disperse, surreal ebbs and flows which carry me back into the primordial womb.
The Beginning.
Leafy arms envelop me, living canopy of shifting chlorophylled drapery. I am bound to ground, but ground is what connects me to my mother, watery life-source, in loamy jumbles of interwoven capillaries. She rushes on, perpetually on, and yet fills her absence with more of herself. Her vitality cascades through me, inspiring growth. Sunlight paints me golden and I am content.
The End.
Bark crackles as the sparks dance like fireflies. Flames consume me and I weep beads of sap which pop and sizzle—a self-made funerary chorus. Something has gone wrong. I have not tasted water in a very long time. But what is time to me? I feel stories of root systems beneath me go silent and I bend towards them, though whether in mourning or because of my compromised frame, I cannot tell. A death rattle rises from my trunk. With sharp snap, I splinter in on myself, forming my own pyre which burns on.
The Beginning.
I am closer to mother now—in clusters of fragrant, velvet leaves. Rather than towering above the ground, my verdant wings now only shyly hover above it. Now and again, I feel hands tug me apart, but I am plentiful. Small but ever persistent, I thrive even when buried in snow, retaining aromatic reservoirs within delicate, serrated edges. I live in this Edenic peace for a good while, allowing mother to heal my charred memory.
The End.
This time, it is not so grandiose. I shrivel into yellow curls once mother has moved on. The selfsame current which brought me breath gradually chiseled away at her fixed path, redirecting her life-giving presence to other pleasant meadows. Her course changed, I yearn daily for her company as I drown in drought, yet I know nature's cyclical duty to repurpose my essence through unseen osmosis. I move on, but I will find her again. And again.
A million lives pass through me, but they blur together in a rush of color that emanates energy—a measure of my birth, my growth, my resilience, my death. In this last form, I was the boy with eyes so dark they often camouflaged his pupils. The boy who loved to sit close to his mother and feel their oneness. I changed, but my core remained. Still, I found a beautiful existence. Still, I mused on death and my role in it.
One night, the boy with blond hair and freezing blue eyes asked me, "Do you believe in death?" What an odd question. Believe in death? As if death were something you can opt out of with a casual signature. Though neither of us remembered—humans can't store the memories quite like plants can—we had worn death shrouds more than wedding veils; had been the blistered tree a thousand times more than the fingers which whipped fatal match against dotted striking surface.
"Yes?" I responded, not quite sure what he meant. I had known of some who feared death, but to not even give it the dignity of an affirmative reality? Not only did I believe in death, I might even say I embraced it. I did not welcome its premature visitation, but to me—the boy who played under his grandparent's willow tree, who gingerly picked mint leaves with one hand while clutching the hand of his mother with the other—there was a quality of artistic depth which death and its finality bestowed upon the living. After all, the contrast of the dusky yin is what brings completion and meaning to its sister, yang. Now, here I lie—or sit or stand, I really cannot tell—in the dark swirl of the circle, fully cognizant and yet disjoined from ritualized time. Perhaps I died yesterday. Perhaps I will be born tomorrow. Or perhaps I will remain here in this gently humming pod for eternity.
As if on cue, synthesized music flows from speakers into my submerged ears, reminding me that I have one minute left before the pool will begin to drain. I open my eyes, breathe, and sit up. I suppose I was lying down. They call it Flotation Therapy, this hour-long journey into nihility. Or is it an immersive view of microcosmic creation? I focus more on the water droplets rolling along my limbs than on searching for an answer. The liquid, whether it be amniotic or embalming, drips down my stalactite fingers all the same. The soap by the shower smells like mint. Was it picked just for me, by me, or is it still me? More likely, it is the artificial extract of my past life—a manufactured hyperreality which replaced originality with the promise of cheaper identicality. I lather it up and down my arms, washing away the salt that buoyed me up. Thick suds amass much like they did on the river, collecting around my left rib cage—reliquary of my pumping scarlet sinews. The soap cleanses, but does not erase the dark calligraphy decorating my side. I trace the outlines. This willow tree inscription seems more transcendent than mere ink punctures marring my follicles with beautiful precision. Its fountain branches sway in and out, breathing art tethered to my skin. Each inhalation and exhalation transforms the canvas—flesh, mahogany, scales, fungus, petals, depending on the century. Don't like me now? Just wait a few hundred years. I smile and close my eyes.
I smile and close my eyes. It's my way of savoring the final notes of my favorite song. I shut off my car and walk across the snow-glazed parking lot into the glowing ambiance of the spa. The man at the front desk checks me in and gives me instructions. Leading me to a private room, he leaves so I can disrobe, cleanse my body of impurities that might clog the apparatus' fragile filtration system, and slide into another dimension. Should I meet myself at the beginning or the end? I really can't decide. The two are so inextricably intertwined.
The Beginning.
Leafy arms envelop me, living canopy of shifting chlorophylled drapery. I am bound to ground, but ground is what connects me to my mother, watery life-source, in loamy jumbles of interwoven capillaries. She rushes on, perpetually on, and yet fills her absence with more of herself. Her vitality cascades through me, inspiring growth. Sunlight paints me golden and I am content.
The End.
Bark crackles as the sparks dance like fireflies. Flames consume me and I weep beads of sap which pop and sizzle—a self-made funerary chorus. Something has gone wrong. I have not tasted water in a very long time. But what is time to me? I feel stories of root systems beneath me go silent and I bend towards them, though whether in mourning or because of my compromised frame, I cannot tell. A death rattle rises from my trunk. With sharp snap, I splinter in on myself, forming my own pyre which burns on.
The Beginning.
I am closer to mother now—in clusters of fragrant, velvet leaves. Rather than towering above the ground, my verdant wings now only shyly hover above it. Now and again, I feel hands tug me apart, but I am plentiful. Small but ever persistent, I thrive even when buried in snow, retaining aromatic reservoirs within delicate, serrated edges. I live in this Edenic peace for a good while, allowing mother to heal my charred memory.
The End.
This time, it is not so grandiose. I shrivel into yellow curls once mother has moved on. The selfsame current which brought me breath gradually chiseled away at her fixed path, redirecting her life-giving presence to other pleasant meadows. Her course changed, I yearn daily for her company as I drown in drought, yet I know nature's cyclical duty to repurpose my essence through unseen osmosis. I move on, but I will find her again. And again.
A million lives pass through me, but they blur together in a rush of color that emanates energy—a measure of my birth, my growth, my resilience, my death. In this last form, I was the boy with eyes so dark they often camouflaged his pupils. The boy who loved to sit close to his mother and feel their oneness. I changed, but my core remained. Still, I found a beautiful existence. Still, I mused on death and my role in it.
One night, the boy with blond hair and freezing blue eyes asked me, "Do you believe in death?" What an odd question. Believe in death? As if death were something you can opt out of with a casual signature. Though neither of us remembered—humans can't store the memories quite like plants can—we had worn death shrouds more than wedding veils; had been the blistered tree a thousand times more than the fingers which whipped fatal match against dotted striking surface.
"Yes?" I responded, not quite sure what he meant. I had known of some who feared death, but to not even give it the dignity of an affirmative reality? Not only did I believe in death, I might even say I embraced it. I did not welcome its premature visitation, but to me—the boy who played under his grandparent's willow tree, who gingerly picked mint leaves with one hand while clutching the hand of his mother with the other—there was a quality of artistic depth which death and its finality bestowed upon the living. After all, the contrast of the dusky yin is what brings completion and meaning to its sister, yang. Now, here I lie—or sit or stand, I really cannot tell—in the dark swirl of the circle, fully cognizant and yet disjoined from ritualized time. Perhaps I died yesterday. Perhaps I will be born tomorrow. Or perhaps I will remain here in this gently humming pod for eternity.
As if on cue, synthesized music flows from speakers into my submerged ears, reminding me that I have one minute left before the pool will begin to drain. I open my eyes, breathe, and sit up. I suppose I was lying down. They call it Flotation Therapy, this hour-long journey into nihility. Or is it an immersive view of microcosmic creation? I focus more on the water droplets rolling along my limbs than on searching for an answer. The liquid, whether it be amniotic or embalming, drips down my stalactite fingers all the same. The soap by the shower smells like mint. Was it picked just for me, by me, or is it still me? More likely, it is the artificial extract of my past life—a manufactured hyperreality which replaced originality with the promise of cheaper identicality. I lather it up and down my arms, washing away the salt that buoyed me up. Thick suds amass much like they did on the river, collecting around my left rib cage—reliquary of my pumping scarlet sinews. The soap cleanses, but does not erase the dark calligraphy decorating my side. I trace the outlines. This willow tree inscription seems more transcendent than mere ink punctures marring my follicles with beautiful precision. Its fountain branches sway in and out, breathing art tethered to my skin. Each inhalation and exhalation transforms the canvas—flesh, mahogany, scales, fungus, petals, depending on the century. Don't like me now? Just wait a few hundred years. I smile and close my eyes.
I smile and close my eyes. It's my way of savoring the final notes of my favorite song. I shut off my car and walk across the snow-glazed parking lot into the glowing ambiance of the spa. The man at the front desk checks me in and gives me instructions. Leading me to a private room, he leaves so I can disrobe, cleanse my body of impurities that might clog the apparatus' fragile filtration system, and slide into another dimension. Should I meet myself at the beginning or the end? I really can't decide. The two are so inextricably intertwined.